by CJ Daly
their children. Some were known to give endowments in the millions to a
school their child was not even admitted to, in the faintest hope they would
be added to the waitlist.
Huh. My body froze up like an ice cube while my brain whirred with
the information I’d uncovered. So the world’s wealthiest and most illustrious
families were throwing millions at the school just for the chance of going
through the admissions process, and yet Andrew Richmond Connelly from
Nowhere, New Mexico was having the red carpet rolled out for him. I
pictured our humble abode, complete with balding tires holding down the
roof. It would almost be comical if there weren’t something so sinister about
it. Why not just go back to their elite pool of recruits? Why go after one particular candidate so hard?
Mama’s “irrational” fear of outsiders and special schools was starting
to make a whole lot of sense now. Her protectiveness seemed the opposite
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of irrational in light of current events. Why didn’t we just listen to her? Oh right— because she was “crazy.”
What made Daddy change his mind?
I thought of the two handsome and obviously persuasive representatives,
and my blood boiled. Who do they think they are messing with our lives this
way? If they think we’re easy marks, just ripe for the picking, then they could just think again!
I only had a few more minutes left, so I zipped off an email to Reese,
logged-out, and sat back to digest what I’d learned, instead of the protein
bar I didn’t get around to eating. I left the library with more questions than
answers, determined to have a come-to-Jesus-meeting with Daddy.
• 124 •
13
THE NEW GUY
When I stepped outside, the afternoon sun glinted off my glasses,
scattering prisms of light across the patchy grass and uneven
sidewalks that made up our school’s terrain. First-day-back
excitement united everyone in a blanket of holiday like revelry. My backpack
wasn’t the only thing weighing me down. I longed to lay down my burdens,
if only for a moment, and join the land of the normal.
Usually, I hustled to class to avoid any social obligations I’d be uninterested
in or unable to fulfill. Now I deliberately stalled so I could peruse the mingling
students for a tall, hunky cadet posing as a senior. I was a black and white
domino of dismay—equal parts afraid I would see him and that I wouldn’t.
But there was nothing new to see, aside from a couple of unfortunate haircuts
and some dubious couplings.
I huffed out a sigh. Real y, what are the odds of lightening striking twice in
Clovis? Guys like that generally stayed in their own world.
As I ambled to the low basic brick building for my Spanish II class, I
played different scenarios out in my mind about who the new boy could
possibly be. Suddenly, I was as interested as everybody else. My heart did flip-
flops just thinking about the possibility of it being Pete or Ranger (although
for way different reasons).
A Bienvenidos Estudiantes sign greeted us outside the open door, and
from inside the room, our names written out on cards greeted us from our
desks. We would be seated alphabetically. How very middle school of him.
Everyone complained as they entered, walking around dejectedly looking for
their assigned seats.
Mine would be easy to find—I was always in the first row, four or five
seats back behind Zoe Bucknore or Sean Castillos. It’d been the same since
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kindergarten. No wonder everyone is so excited for a new face. I backtracked to my seat right next to the door, second from last.
Steph Aguilar passed me on the way to her seat and grimaced. “Ugh. First
row, first seat.” I gave a sympathetic smile. “Where were you? We spotted the
hot, new guy as he was coming back from lunch. Ashley-Leigh parked as close
as possible, but everyone was literally all over him. She decided to stay a little
longer and wait it out.”
The bell rang, ending our one-sided conversation. I sat down, doodling on
the inside of my notebook and mulling over everything. I saw my unconscious
doodles had morphed into two questions: Pete? Or Ranger?
“Bienvenidos! ” Mr. Sanchez greeted us with an enthusiastic first-day-of-
class voice and a neon-yellow tie. Both seemed especially jarring considering
my frayed nerves.
Just then, the door sucked opened behind me and closed with a Bang!
that caused me and half the class to jump. This was followed by an “oopsie”
and an unapologetic giggle.
“Nice of you to join us, Señorita Montgomery,” Mr. Sanchez chastised
Ashley while she made her way to the center of the room with a lot of
fanfare. “Okay, today we’re going to go over the syllabus, hand out your new
workbooks,”—he briefly held one up: Dos Mundos, Two Worlds—“and then
go around the room, so you can introduce yourselves and show off what you
did this summer by telling us . . . in Spanish.”
Predictable groans followed this announcement. Not very original.
Teachers must all take a class on how to bore students to death on the first
day back. I didn’t care one way or the other, too preoccupied with speculation
about the new guy and my list of questions for the mentor.
“First, I’m going to take role while,” he paused, looking around for a
suitable candidate, “Señor Lopez passes out the syllabus.”
Miguel popped up with an affable smile while Mr. Sanchez began moving
through the “B” names. I was mentally preparing for him to call mine next,
when the door behind me sucked back open. Someone stepped into the room
and closed the door with a soft click. Twenty-plus heads flew to the back of
the room simultaneously. I found myself blushing under all the scrutiny until
I realized—they weren’t staring at me. Tingles ran up my spine.
It was him. Another beat and something else clicked. Of course! Andrew’s new mentor, and the cadet standing behind me, were one and the same. I
closed my eyes and paid close attention to that sixth sense. Even though I was
deathly curious to see if I was right, I was way too chicken to turn around.
A current of excitement zapped each female student’s face as if they were
• 126 •
all connected to the same wire. Eyes were met. Shoulders nudged. Boys glowered while girls glowed. One pink-faced girl even took out a tube of
lipstick. Most of the hoo-hah was happening in the middle of the room, where
Ashley-Leigh sat bolt upright, smiling seductively and tossing her hair as if an
invisible director told her it was time to hit her mark. I had to hand it to her:
she was ready and set to go.
A low buzzing, which included the bass and tenor whispers of boys,
erupted simultaneously. Even Mr. Sanchez stopped to adjust his tie in
preparation for our newcomer.
Oh please— get it together, people. I rolled my eyes until I remembered I’d pretty much acted the same way the first time I saw him, too.
Mr. Sanchez cleared his throat to announce the obvious: “It looks like
we have a new student.” He backtracked to the podium to check his roster.
“Bienvenidos .
. . Señor Davenport.”
Mr. Sanchez beckoned him forward with a toothy smile, and my heart
began thumping dramatically in my chest. He lingered in the doorway a
moment longer, I guess allowing everyone a moment to drink him in. But I
still refused to acknowledge his presence. However, I was the only one in the
room not staring at him.
My body felt like a high voltage magnet was drawing me to him. Still,
I resisted the urge to turn my head. When he ambled forward, he casually
brushed his hand along the side of my desk. I automatically looked up just in
time to see Pete shamelessly wink at me as he sauntered by. I flushed beet red
like an insipid schoolgirl before quickly averting my eyes back to my desk.
Only to find my favorite clicky-pen missing.
Palpable excitement roused the bored juniors and seniors from their
afternoon slump. It became apparent that everyone was showing off in some
minor way for our preternaturally famous guest. Jocks puffed themselves up,
acting so cool they were anything but. One guy turned around in his seat
to fist-bump a buddy over a girl’s desk as she surreptitiously powder-puffed
away her shine. Even Mr. Sanchez amped up his already exuberant Mexican-
accented voice for the benefit of our new arrival.
I noticed how everyone instantly came to the same conclusion I did: Here
was someone special, someone to be reckoned with, someone who had the
world by the balls . . . and knew it.
Unable to resist any longer, my eyes lifted to where he was standing, in
front of a roomful of gawkers, the picture of ease. Brown leather backpack
slung casually over his shoulder, gray clingy T-shirt half-tucked into artfully
• 127 •
faded jeans, Pete was a walking advertisement for some upscale catalog nobody here could afford.
His eye was still pretty messed-up, and I felt sick with guilt about it,
despite myself. It’s funny how that black eye only added to his rampant sex appeal. It was the only flaw on an otherwise perfect male specimen, adding
a delicious element of danger that had all the girls drooling. I could actually
see what Steph was talking about now. Our eyes met again, and I felt my face
burn with more than just embarrassment.
Gah! Get it together Kate! He’s the enemy.
I just realized the enemy’s last name was Davenport. And there was
only one other D-name, and she was sitting in the seat behind me. That
meant if Mr. Sanchez stuck to his alphabet plan, Señor Davenport would
soon be occupying Molly Donaldson’s chair. My stomach did a funny little
summersault, and my hand itched to take out my hairbrush and have a go
at my hair.
I vaguely heard a chorus of bienvinedos ( some more enthusiastic than
others). It was hard to keep track of the particulars when blood was roaring
through my ears. I thought how the cool wood of the desk would feel pretty
good against my cheek right about now. The reality of him being here—in
the flesh—was too much, my body already warring with opposing emotions.
I wiped my palms on my jeans then rummaged in my backpack for my
metal canteen. I felt rather like choking at the moment, that I’m-gonna-
cough-in-church feeling. Miguel shot me a look. I gave him a sheepish smile before returning my hungry eyes back to the main attraction.
Pete was currently being put on the spot by Mr. Sanchez, who asked him
to introduce himself to the class. “Hola,” he gamely greeted us, his melodious voice instantly quieting the buzzing classroom. “Me llamo Pete Davenport.
Soy un estudiante de intercambio De La Academia Internacional de Elite en
California. Me encanta surfing y echare de menos ir a la playa los fines de semana, aunque tengo muchas ganas de aprender nuevos deportes como la monta de toros.”
Of course he spoke perfect Spanish!
Mr. Sanchez laughed appreciatively at something Pete said that no one
else seemed to catch. A couple of girls began fanning themselves, the starting
tailback made the retching sign with his finger, and the majority of the guys
smirked or rolled their eyes. But all the juvenile behavior didn’t put a chip in Pete’s rock-solid confidence; he held court, in front of a classroom of strangers,
without a flicker of self-consciousness.
After finishing his smooth spiel, enthusiastic applause erupted from a
trio of girls near the back. They furiously blushed and giggled as he inclined
• 128 •
his golden head toward them. One errant lock of hair fell forward, and he casually brushed it back, revealing a little more of the faint bruising around
his eye. I swear I heard audible gasps, and the force of Molly Donaldson’s
sigh stirred my hair.
“Muy bien, Señor Davenport,” Mr. Sanchez approved before searching his
desk for some paperwork.
In the interim our eyes met again. Pete waggled his eyebrows at me,
grinning. Several pairs of eyes followed his while I shifted around in my seat.
My blushing returned with a vengeance, but I managed to crack a weak smile
to acknowledge him because he was still boldly smiling into my eyes.
Mr. Sanchez called the class back to order. While everyone else faced
forward again, two sets of eyes remained on mine, puzzled and looking for
answers. I refused to look either Miguel or Ashley-Leigh in the eye. Instead,
I cleared my throat and reached for my canteen again—my throat suddenly
felt like a dusty haystack.
“Okay. Looks like you’ll be sitting . . .” Mr. Sanchez paused to access,
and the girls leaned forward, scanning the room for empty desks, “behind
Señorita Connelly.”
While I did more seat squirming, the bulk of the female population stared
at me with various shades of green. I heard Molly huff and puff and get out
of her seat.
“Not so fast, Señorita Donaldson. Everyone seems to be all settled today,
so mañana, ” Mr. Sanchez enunciated dramatically, “everyone from Molly on
will move back a seat.” Collective groans. “Ahora, Señor Davenport can sit in any unoccupied desk.”
Girls in every row proffered several enticing invitations. Ashley-Leigh
practically yanked Corinne Mahal’s arm from its socket to get her to surrender
her desk. No such luck, I noted with satisfaction as Corinne clung to her desk.
Pete ambled to the last row, where he sat across from a girl with a skater-boy
haircut and one too many piercings. She immediately scooted her desk closer
to his.
Gah! Could nobody play it cool? I wondered if I would be able to keep it
together in his presence. I closed my eyes, my lips parting involuntarily as I remembered him leaning over to whisper in my ear. My eyes popped back
open. Apparently, the answer was no, no I could not. My only option then
was avoidance. He was obviously up to no good. How could I avoid him when
I’d see him every day at school? The more pressing concern was the amount to which I didn’t want to avoid him.
Class went by in a blur of mangled Spanish introductions and furtive
• 129 •
glances at our newest CHS member, who was twirling my pen between his fingers looking bored. When he became aware of his audience, he stopped,
clicked it once, and looked over at me. But I was too quick, whipping my head
back into forward positi
on.
When it was my turn to introduce myself, I stammered my way through
what was usually easy conversational Spanish. Afterward, Mr. Sanchez called
me out for it.
“Katie, Katie.” He shook his head at me. “Looks like you forgot some of
your basic Spanish over the summer.”
My neck was immediately gripped by an urge stronger than every ounce
of my will not to peek. Pete was waiting with an arched brow as if to say:
That’s the best you’ve got? A burning started in my chest like I’d swallowed a serrano pepper at lunch, and it just came back up. Why am I letting him rattle
me like this? Mama would be so disappointed in me. The burning turned into determination not to let him get the best of me.
So when the bell rang, I bolted out the door before he could so much
as blink in my direction. Ha! It’ ll take him till the next bell just to pry Ashley-Leigh’s claws off. My laugh fell flat as our streets as a jolt more jarring than running over one of our potholes hit me:
What if Ashley-Leigh real y does sink her claws into him?
I made it back to the main building and up to the second floor for my
chemistry class in record time. Dizzy with anticipation, I slumped onto
an empty stool at a lab table near the front. The bell rang and Mr. Benson
closed the door. About a minute after roll call, the door opened again, and
all eyes flew to the door. I kept mine trained on Mr. Benson as he droned on
about the importance of safety precautions. Footsteps maneuvered around
dumped backpacks, heading my way. Someone sat down on the vacant stool
next to mine—closer than was strictly necessary unless two people were well
acquainted. I didn’t turn to acknowledge him, and after a few more seconds
of staring ahead so hard my eyes were beginning to water, I heard a familiar,
muffled whisper.
“What the hell was with you back there?”
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”
“Do you know that guy?”
“Um . . . not really,” I hedged, not meeting Miguel’s eyes.
Thankfully, it was impossible to continue the conversation because Mr.
Benson was handing out his version of the three P’s: procedures, policies, and
permission slips. Chemistry ticked by slowly with me not paying attention to
